


Knight And His Squire

by Coffeedormous



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Gen, Harry Hart Lives, M/M, Sleepy Kisses, imagined kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffeedormous/pseuds/Coffeedormous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The recovery after the gunshot. <br/>All is well ^^</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight And His Squire

Harry Hart was, as long as he could remember, a very self-conscious man. A human being, surely, who, as everybody, passed puberty at some point. But he liked to think that shortly after that period he trained himself to be always aware of all his sences, thoughts and feelings. And he was, indeed, very aware of them. The problem was, although he was aware, he sometimes could not do a single thing about it.  
As his mind slowly floated out from the pitch black darkness to some kind of consciousness, there came the well-know sence of confusion. Being a Kingsman, Harry had susteined many injuries recovering from wich required being on drugs, and early in his career he discovered that his mind worked in most peculiar ways when it came to any clowded of deluded states of it.  
A big dose of anastetic knocked him out as well as the next man, but as long as the drug started to wear off even a little, Harry became self-aware while still in a dream  world. Wich was of course a one more proof of his willpower and focus, but also came with a nasty feeling of not knowing if what he whitnessed was the drug-induced fantasy, or he was already awake and had no controll over his body. He got used to these states over the years, learned how to distinguish horrors of his own creation from events of the real world. But sometimes, if an injury was particulary bad and painful or was accompanied by some, say, aggravating factors, it was as frustrating as the first time.  
And this was sertainly the case now.  
Memories of recent events were slowly coming back to him, not as a storyline, but as ragged, painfully colourful bits of images and emotions. There, he is in his house, he sipes his whiskey and is so, so angry. But angry at who? Right, Eggsy. Eggsy and stupid pug, and his anger is now mixed with a strange feeling of guilt: "You shot your dog just to get a fucking job?" Shit, he thinks to himself. Shit, I did, didn't I.

Now he is on a plane, and the window is cold against his forehead, and he is glad, glad that there is a mission, a villain to deal with, a purpouse. And he can stop thinking about this stupid, faint hearted boy who let him down, who turned to be a common man after all, and who, god damn him, with his plebic morale, made him feel like he, Harry Hart, a Kingsman agent, was wrong, was somehow less of a man than this teenage punk.  
A plane.  
The next part of his memories came with all its glory. Harry was not only remembering the slaughter in the church, he was reliving it. He was there, and somehow he felt both the horror of his conscious mind and the overwhelming rage which flooded him at that time. Or was it happening right now? He shot, and crushed, and pierced, and too hot Kentucky sun touched his burning cheeks. And the worst part of it was that this uncontrolled rage, this beast wich he turned into, it didn't came out of nowhere. Worst part was that he remembered himself sitting on a bench before in all started, listening to this moron of a priest and clenching his fists – first in annoiance, then in anger. He remembered that before this artificially induced rage consumed him and made him act on it, he felt the real rage, coming not from some sellphone, but from himself. He looked at the ugly, sweaty, angry man by the altar who was cheering those stupid, sheep-like people to hate, to kill, to tear apart their fellow men because the said fellow men happened to be born with skin of wrong colour, or happened to love a person of wrong sex, or worship a wrong god. Before the madness, Harry remembered wanting to come up to the altar and strangle the blasted priest just to shut him up, to stop it all for good.  
And he bloody well stopped it, didn't he.  
The rest of it was vague, and less intense.  
He is covered in blood and sweat. He steppes out of the church and the american sun blinds him, he smells the revolting mix of blood, gasoline and awful perfum of..Valentine. The man is saying something, and Harry responds, but his thoughts are still there, in the dim corners of the church, among the mutilated corpses, their faces deformed with rage and death, sun beaming upon them through narrow windows. Dust dancing in the sun.  
A gunshot.  
Right.  
He tries to open his eyes and, seemingly, succedes. The seiling is hight and arched, and the sun beams upon him through huge lancet windows – not the white american sun, but the red, setting down the hill, english one. He sighes and looks around. With a surprise he finds out that the weight on his legs is not some king of a cast, but rather a pug, curled in a small ball and sleeping, sometimes worringly sniffing the air. He turnes his head a bit more to the right and sees a boy curled down in the big chair, with almost exact expression as his dog. And it seems so.. right.  
Harry shifts in his bed, and the boy and his dog both shrug and open their eyes. Eggsy yawns, rubbes his eyes and looks at Harry with a smile, intensly, but without surprise. He comes nearer and suddenly kneels by the bed and takes Harry's hand in his own. His toch is careful, he looks at the hand like it's some kind of a rare creature. Eggsy turns his palm over and kisses it, his soft lips tickling a little. He then presses Harry's palm to his own cheek, and Harry feels under his fingers the tender skin on Eggsy's temple and the bristle on his cheeks. The red sun shines over them, over the whole big room, and the things lay long warm shadows on the mosaic floor, and Harry feels so at home, so calm. Eggsy lets go of his hand and stands up, or rather sits at the corner of his bed, leaning towards the man. Harry remains still. It all feels so good, that only thing he wants is to stay here, no mater what, bathing in this sunlight and these stange but plesant caresses of Eggsy, and next thing he knows the boy's lips are lightly pressing into his own, and Harry lazily thinks that this is right, too, that he doesn't mind that at all, although he probably should. It fells just as right as the sunset, and the warmth, and the weight of J. B. pressing onto his legs. It feels home.

He openes his eyes, - again? - and now the sun is bright, a bit greenish, bouncing off the endless fields aroung the Kingsman manor. Harry sits up, and there comes a pain of the bruises and the weight of the bandages, but it is alright, it is bearable, and, moreover, it means he is finally awake. Soon the door opens, and there come Merlinb and Roxy, smiling, and Eggsy, with absolutely bemused look on his face, and while the others are talking, Eggsy just sits by his bed, looking at Harry with disbelief and even fear, as if he is afraid that any second Harry could drop dead again. Merlin tells Harry about the success of their mission, about how great Roxy and Eggsy were, and Roxy says "no, I truly didn't do anything special, anybody can launch a missile, but he, Eggsy, he was a real hero, sir"! And the happy chatter goes on, and the look on Eggsy's face slowly, very slowly turns into a bleak, but steady smile.  
Then they are all leaving, telling him to rest, and Harry asks Eggsy before the boy could leave:  
\- Eggsy? Stay for a minute, will you?  
\- Um, sure, - he pushes J. B. off the bed and sits on the edge of it. - I can stay longer, if you don't want to be alone.  
\- It's fine, - Harry says, - I just wanted to say that I am sorry.  
Eggsy's eyebrows fly up.  
\- The fuck, Harry, what on earth are you sorry for?  
\- For... - Harry shookes his head, - For being angry, for that you had to whitness all this horror in the church. It's...I am very proud of you, just you know that. We will have time to talk about it all later.  
\- Sure, man, okay. You just rest now. - Harry shoots off the bed, hiding his eyes a bit, and heads to the door.  
Suddenly Harry remembers something and chuckles lightly.  
\- And...Eggsy?  
\- Um?  
\- Did you..while I was sleeping, did you..kiss me?  
Eggsy freezes on the spot, looking into the floor like he suddenly fould the carpet very interesting. Then he bursts out with words:  
\- You mean the hand, Harry? Well..yeah. Sorry, I didn't know you were awake, it must've been creepy. Sorry, man. I just...you Kingsman folks are sort of knights, right? Like, Arthur was like this King Arthur, the shite he was in the end, though. And Galahad.. Well, I just sort of..you are a knight, and I'm like your.. your squire, innit? It's like it is in them legends, and it just seemed like a...well, a right thing to do, ya'know. Sorry, man, it must've been creepy, and..  
\- And this is...all? - Harry interrupted him with a smile.  
\- All, Harry? What d'ya mean?..  
\- Nothing. And Eggsy...it wasn't creepy, it was nice. The only thing wrong with it is that you are, and maybe always were, as much of a knight as I am. Maybe even more so.  
\- Yeah, sure, Harry, - Eggsy chuckled with relief, - a knight and his noble pug. Go sleep it off, man, - he said, closing the door behind him.

Harry listened a bit to the retreating steps of the boy and his dog, looked out the window, straight at the morning english sun, and suddenly bust into light, happy laughter.  
No shining armor for him, but maybe having a castle to return to is enough after all.


End file.
